


Acclimatization

by Owlship



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Furiosa gets to have nice things, Gen, Massage, Massage Therapy in a pretty literal way, Spa Treatments, about as gen as i am capable of writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-10 14:22:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6960562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlship/pseuds/Owlship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On her own Furiosa would never even think to book an appointment at a spa, but the group of young women she's lately fallen in with have somehow figured out when her birthday is (she suspects Valkyrie might have been involved, the traitor) and presented her with an itinerary for a day trip. It wasn't even a generic gift certificate that she might forget in a drawer or give away to someone else but an already-booked session in her own name with a massage therapist who, to hear them tell it, was "a complete miracle worker" with his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acclimatization

**Author's Note:**

> I'm blaming fadagaski & everyone else on slack for this. How dare you wave AU ideas and word wars in my face, I was fully prepared to wallow in writer's block for at least another week or two.
> 
> Apparently "masseuse" is both a gendered term _and_ outdated, who knew.

On her own Furiosa would never even think to book an appointment at a spa, but the group of young women she's lately fallen in with have somehow figured out when her birthday is (she suspects Valkyrie might have been involved, the traitor) and presented her with an itinerary for a day trip. It wasn't even a generic gift certificate that she might forget in a drawer or give away to someone else but an already-booked session in her own name with a massage therapist who, to hear them tell it, was "a complete miracle worker" with his hands.

Turning down the offer would have meant wasting their money and they'd known she wouldn't bear to do so, which meant instead she was going to waste a day by actually going. They were nice enough to make sure it was scheduled for one of her days off, so at least she wasn't going to miss work for something so lazy and indulgent.

Furiosa is no judge of spas but the place is clean at least, the robe they've given her soft and the sandals flimsy but fresh out of a package of disposables. It's a minor relief that she's not the only visitor keeping a bathing suit on as she spends some time soaking in one of their hot tubs, thinking that probably the hot water is going to get her closer to relaxed than having some stranger rub her down.

When her appointment time comes she's directed to a set of showers to rinse away the chlorine on her skin, bathing suit folded up inside a bag in the locker they'd given her, leaving her in only the robe and uncomfortable with the vulnerability of it, like an extra scrap of cloth is really going to make any sort of difference. And then she's sitting on the edge of a sheet-covered massage table, watching the door warily. What relaxation she'd managed to achieve during her soak is replaced with tenseness, anxiety twisting through her at the thought of a stranger's hands on her skin, even in a context like this where she's sure the workers have no motives beyond performing their jobs.

The music playing in the background is soft and instrumental, mindless enough to almost disappear but just noticeable to ping at her ears; there's a few candles scattered around with blackened wicks and lumps of melted wax and she wonders if they ever actually get burned or if it's just for show. There's no windows in the room, only a second door on the far wall that she's already tested and found to be locked- just storage, likely. She restlessly surveys the jumble of nature prints lining the walls until finally there's a soft knock on the door.

"Come in," Furiosa calls out, refusing to let herself fidget from nerves as the door opens to reveal the person she assumes her appointment's booked with.

She's already prepared for it to be a man, of course- the reason the girls had made her an appointment at this particular spa was because their "wizard, seriously his hands are _magic_ " specialized in rehabilitative massage, something that isn't easy to find outside of medical facilities. Not that she has any actual intention of letting him near her half-arm, licensed professional or not.

He's about as tall as she would be if she wasn't perched on the table but broad, built like he works with his hands, which she supposes makes sense considering; the pale uniform the staff here wear looks slightly uncomfortable on him, like he'd prefer to be in just a plain shirt instead of the buttoned-up polo he's stuffed into.

"You, mhm, Furiosa?" he asks, voice deep to match with the jaw covered by a close-cropped beard and generally rough lines of his body. There's a clipboard in his hands that his eyes flick down to, like he needs to check that it's really her name.

“I am,” she replies, not backing down from sizing him up as if she has the advantage despite being the one who's naked under her robe and sitting down. It occurs to her that he's surprisingly handsome and she wonders if that wasn't part of the reason the girls decided to book her appointment with him in particular, a thought that sends a wave of fond exasperation through her.

He ducks his head with a quiet little noise, "Hello, 'm Max."

His name was right on her appointment info and there's a nametag clipped to his company shirt saying as much, but Furiosa nods at the introduction all the same.

"First time?" he asks, expression blandly inquisitive though the answer is written down already on the sign-in sheet she filled out earlier that morning. She's had some physio work following her amputation, brutal muscle manipulations in an overcrowded rehab clinic really, nothing like the type of massages people go to spas for and years in the past now anyway.

She nods in answer and Max hums wordlessly, like he only wanted to confirm it.

"I'll leave so you can lie down," he says, forgoing any awkward small-talk about how her day has been and what brings her to the spa for the first time and whether she's enjoying her visit so far, "There's towels to cover up with, I won't see anything."

She's torn between the desire to fully commit to the idea of being massaged, the fantasy she's been sold of it being relaxing and detached despite all the contact, but she pictures herself laying all-but-naked on the table with a strange man's hands on her skin and something inside her recoils.

"No," Furiosa says forcefully enough to have him blink at her in surprise, "I'm keeping my robe on."

"Ah," he says, eyes dipping down to check the clipboard- she remembers recklessly filling in a few more boxes about what she'd be interested in for the session than she really should have, everything considered- but instead of questioning her he only shrugs a shoulder. "Okay. Hmm... Your arms carry a lotta tension?"

"My feet," she replies quickly, arms clamped tight around herself in reflexive defense, knees pressed close together. It really should be her upper body that get massaged if it's going to be any part, her neck and her shoulders always tensed and strained from compensating for the lack of a second hand. But her feet seem a safe place if she isn't going to waste the trip entirely, something that doesn't feel anywhere near as personal. She can even kick him if she needs to with his face right there.

Max hums again, seemingly unconcerned by her answer. "I'll need your shoes off," he says, setting the clipboard down on the table laden with candles and speakers for the music system. "This sound okay?" he asks, tapping a hand lightly against one of the speakers. "Volume, station?"

It's the same mix of classical music and nature sounds that's being piped through the entire spa, as far as she can tell, meant to be quiet and unobtrusive and relaxing. Furiosa shrugs, doubting that there's a track to emulate where _she_ feels most at ease, the mechanical rumblings and clanks of a working garage.

He doesn't ask about lighting any of the candles, only grabs a bottle of lotion or massage oil or whatever the proper name for it would be from a basket of others and holds it out with a quirked eyebrow. It's the same brand they have in the restrooms, lightly scented and nothing that she thinks will irritate her skin, and she shrugs again because even if there are more options it doesn't really matter much to her. He nods and pushes over a low stool over to the front of the table where her bare legs hang over the side, gets himself settled. There's the lines of some sort of strapping or bracing visible under the cloth of his pants as his knees flex, and she wonders if maybe his specializing in rehab massage was because of an injury of his own, rather than because it was easy money.

"Right foot first," Max says, squirting a dab of lotion to rub between his hands and making no move to actually reach out and touch her. She tells herself to stop being ridiculous about hesitating and extends her foot for him to take, the first brush of deliberate skin contact strange after being so used to keeping herself at arm's length.

"Okay?" he asks, just holding her foot carefully, eyes flicking up to find hers.

Furiosa snorts out a breath more for herself than him, twitches her toes. The lotion warms quickly when he starts moving his hands, careful light pressure at first, feeling through her skin to the bone and tendons underneath. His eyes dart back up to her before he does just about anything, quiet little inquisitive noises slipping from his mouth like he's asking permission.

It's... nice, better than she had expected. He doesn't seem to mind being directed to waste his supposed physio training on just rubbing her feet, pays the task the strictest attention. The strangeness of someone else's hands on her skin wears off fairly quickly- faster than she's expecting certainly- at the reminder of what it's like when simple contact isn't something that carries unpleasant undertones.

Max's hands find a particularly tender spot among the callouses on the ball of her foot and she bites back a groan as he works his fingers into it, kneading far more carefully than she ever bothers with.

"Okay?" he asks, and it takes her a moment to realize that she hadn't hidden the noise as well as she would have hoped. Furiosa nods, not wanting him to stop, thinks there might be the shadow of a smile on his face.

"Your left," Max says after he works on her foot another minute longer, still not making any move to reach out himself even though he draws back from her right foot. It's effortless to present her other foot to him, now that she knows her hesitation seems to be unfounded.

As it turns out her left foot is just a bit ticklish. The slide of his hands over her skin is light, almost teasing, and she can't help the reflexive jerk away that she makes, mildly surprised that she hasn't kicked out instead.

"Hmm?" he hums in question, hands hovering carefully, and Furiosa nods and resolutely holds herself still for him to work. The ticklishness gives way as she keeps track of where his fingers are moving, taking the element of surprise out of the touches.

She hasn't had many foot rubs in her life that weren't self-inflicted, certainly not any by someone who has actual training in the subject, but she has a feeling this is probably a particularly good example. Max's touches are light and firm by turns, fingers and knuckles rubbing and pressing until she's not sure if it's pain or pleasure she's feeling, covering everything from her ankle to the tips of her toes as he works.

It goes on for entirely too long and yet doesn't last long enough.

The session was booked for a solid hour, but when he draws his hands away again Furiosa turns her gaze to the unobtrusive clock on the wall and sees that less than twenty minutes have passed since he first walked into the room. It would still be a waste to dismiss him now, but she can't imagine that her feet need any more rubbing.

Max stays seated on his low stool, eyes wandering between her face and some point off behind her, inquisitive without demanding, no shade of anything like judgmental. He'd be fine letting her sit for the rest of the hour in silence, she thinks, doesn't care what her hang-ups are about the process.

"Maybe," Furiosa starts to say, stretching and clenching her toes idly to see how the muscles feel now that they've been worked over, "You could do my neck?" Like this her neck is already exposed, nothing she would have to undress further for, but she can't help the reflexive way her hand clamps down tight again on the overlapping flaps of her robe.

His gaze slides around her head and neck for a moment, considering how to approach maybe, before he nods. "It's easier if you're on a chair," Max says, standing up from his low stool and sliding it back against the wall, "Balances easier."

There's a fairly typical-looking office chair in the room, something she would have assumed was meant for him to sit in, but he nods to it and she turns the idea over. It's far better than lying down prone on the table with him hovering over her. Sitting upright she'd be able to break away if he tried something, not that after feeling him out she thinks it's a real possibility, but the knowledge that she has options for _if_ is still comforting.

Furiosa nods and slips off the massage table, places her feet back into the flimsy disposable shoes instead of stepping directly onto the cold tile. Her feet feel strange with weight back on them, a little bit achy in places and numb in others, but solid and stable against the floor. He drapes a spare sheet over the chair and then steps back, sweeping a hand out to indicate it with a little theatrical flourish that has her lips twitching into a small smile.

"Can you face the back?" Max asks, “Arms on the backrest?”

It wouldn't be something she thinks twice about- she straddles chairs in her normal life often enough- if it wasn't for the fact that she's dressed in only a bathrobe. She scans his face and there's nothing at all there but professional politeness, body tilted away from the chair like he's getting ready to turn around and not look anyway, and she chastises herself because it's ridiculous to even hesitate.

As it turns out the chair's back isn't so wide between her legs nor the robe so small that she isn't just as covered as she was before, anyway.

"Back straight?" he says, lightly questioning, moving to stand within easy sight of her once she's settled. She adjusts her spine, her shoulders, steels herself for the fact that his hands are about to be on a far more vulnerable part of her than her feet.

" 'm gonna be behind you," Max says, not yet moving. She nods, because it makes more sense than reaching around the front of her head, and the thought of him being where she can't see is daunting but having his arms a cage around her face to block off her vision isn't appealing either.

There's more lotion on his hands when he finally touches her, and Furiosa can't quite stop herself from flinching away at the first brush of his skin.

"Hey," he says quietly, something between a reassurance and a question, but she grits her teeth.

"Just surprised," she says, holds herself forcibly still for when his fingers come back around. Having had his hands on her feet already helps her to shake her way through the renewed contact, his fingers resting without moving against her skin, the twitchy shock of someone touching her easing the longer she feels it.

It has, perhaps, been too long since she last let someone touch her like this. There's casual contact with Valkyrie and the girls, legs pressing up together when they crowd into one another's couches or if she's been kicked out of the driver's seat, arms slung around shoulders companionably after nights out drinking, but nothing quite so intimate and unrelenting as this stranger's hands on her neck in a long time.

"Okay?" Max asks after a moment of not moving.

"Yeah," she replies, taking a careful breath to remind herself to breathe. The surprise of it was the worst part, probably, and now that she knows where his hands are she'll be able to work through the somersaulting in her belly dredged up by the contact.

He hums in acknowledgment, starts moving his hands in small careful movements, up to where her hair bristles and down to nearly where her neck curves to shoulder. He has large hands, warm once the coolness of the lotion heats up, and he's mostly using the tips of his fingers in small precise motions near her spine but she thinks if he wrapped a hand around her throat he could grip nearly her entire neck easily.

A shiver runs through her at the thought and he pauses, makes a soft noise.

"Fine," Furiosa says, tamping ruthlessly down on the thrill of fear, “Keep going.”

It's not relaxing, not really, but the strangeness of being touched at all starts fading into pleasure as his fingers find little knots of tension and soothe them away to a warm dull ache. The repetitive motions of it lulls her into lowering her guard a little, eyes latching onto one of the half-melted unlit candles to zone out instead of scanning what she can see of the room restlessly.

"Just your neck?" Max asks after some time, hands skimming low to the boundary he seems to have drawn without pressing further, a good couple of centimeters or so above where the collar of her robe sits.

She thinks it over, the deep-set ache she carries from how heavy and tiring to use her prosthesis can be, the general tension from a life of hard work and stress. It's not like this is a backrub as a precursor to anything else, a seedy pretense to get her shirt off.

"My shoulders too," she replies.

"You'll need to, ah, adjust your robe," he says, hands leaving her skin, the sound of his shoes on the tile as he takes a step away loud and clear in her ears. Her neck feels almost cold without the warmth of his fingers. "I'll give you a minute."

Furiosa twists around on a neck that feels _looser_ somehow, sees that he's turned his back to her. It doesn't take much work to open the neck of the robe, slip it down to hang low off the ends of her shoulders. It's still plenty high, doesn't leave her feeling much more exposed than any shirt she might wear out on an ordinary day, but she still presses her chest up against the chair's backrest to make sure it doesn't get further dislodged.

"Okay," she says when she's settled in again, signaling him to turn back around.

He hums lightly, steps closer again. She doesn't flinch this time when Max puts his hands carefully against her skin, the contact not desirable precisely but something she doesn't have to steel herself to only endure, either. It begins with the same careful movements as before, just extended over a wider area, his fingers sure and steady as he maps out the muscles and sinews under her skin.

She finds that it's not so hard to keep her breathing steady and even as she focuses on the sweep of his hands across her skin, testing out the edges a little more each time until he's near where she's adjusted the robe to drape.

"Pressure okay?" he asks, and she's not sure if he's warning her that he'll be using more or if he's asking if the current level is acceptable. His hands are fairly light against her, gentler than she might have expected after seeing how strong his arms looked.

"More would be fine," Furiosa says after thinking it over, trying to answer both possibilities. He hums in response and presses a little more firmly, enough that she feels the push of it deeper against her bones.

At first it's just a harder press against her skin, and then the pressure starts to work on her muscles as Max keeps moving his hands, an aching sort of pleasure building up in the wake of it.

She knows that her shoulders are probably a mess of knotted and gnarled muscle, tension and overwork and awkward use not kind even to people with two good hands, so it's not a surprise when sooner rather than later he presses up against a spot that has her hissing out sharply in pain.

He pulls back, hands going just light enough that she can still feel them, makes an inquisitive noise. If she tells him to she is sure he would back off, keep the massage light and free of even the temporary pain of a knot worked free.

"Keep going," Furiosa says, pressing back into his hands. He doesn't question her decision, just picks the pressure back up as he kneads into the sore spot, knuckles firm as he digs in. It's a warm sort of ache, dull and deep, and it seems as if the tension floods out all at once to leave only relief. She lets out a shaky sigh that she refuses to call a moan, realizes that her eyes have somehow slipped shut without her noticing.

Max rumbles out something that might be an agreement or might be amusement, hands gentling again with the knot worked out. There's more to find, she knows, but for once it seems like it might be worth it to have them massaged out instead of left to irritate her further as she's used to.

By the time the hour is up Furiosa has her head resting lax against her folded arms, hypnotized by the sweep of careful hands against her tingling skin, by how warm and loose she feels.

"All done," Max says quietly to break the spell, leaves her skin cold to the air when he steps back away.

She almost wants to ask him to keep going, surprised by how enjoyable it was, but she's sure that he has other places to be, other clients to see. It takes Furiosa a moment to collect herself, blinking to clear her eyesight again, shuffling to get her robe done back up all the way. Her neck and shoulders feel strange and liquid as she stretches out, luxurious.

"Thank you," she says, unable to resist rubbing the curve of her shoulder like she'll be able to feel the difference from the outside, and he nods in response, eyes crinkling a little at the corners as he gives her a soft smile.

"Welcome," Max says easily, moving to tidy away something or other while she slowly gets back to her feet. "Take your time," he says, "Don't wanna, hm, undo all that work."

Furiosa doesn't think she could rush if she wanted to, feels warm and languid even as she regains her balance, feels far more relaxed after all than she had been following that dip in the hot tub. It's a peculiar sensation, nothing like being tired out after working hard or even the laxness that comes with sleep, something she can't imagine wanting every day but might keep in mind for the future.

The massage was her only real treatment booked for the day, and she supposes she could leave now that she would no longer be wasting the girls' present. She lingers for a while instead, lounges idly with a glass of cucumber water in hand and listens to the other guests chatter quietly among themselves, the endorphin rush of her massage slowly fading back to a quiet contentedness.

But it's not long before the enforced idleness and atmosphere of the spa begin to grate on her, far too used to being up and running most of the day. If she was there with company it might be bearable, something she puts up with their sake, but as it is it's sooner rather than later that she's trading her robe for her clothing again.

By the time she returns home Furiosa feels much like she normally does, perhaps a touch more relaxed. The TV is on when she walks through the door, Toast sitting up on her couch and Capable scrambling upright from where she's draped across the rest of the cushions to send a bright smile her way.

"You survived!" Capable says rather than offering any explanation for their presence in her apartment.

Furiosa shrugs a still-loose shoulder, "It wasn't so bad."

"Did you actually get your massage?" Toast asks, but before she can reply her shifts expression to something knowing and conspiratorial, "He's good, right?"

"Yes, I actually went," she replies, kicking off her shoes and debating whether she'd rather kick them out or join in on whatever it is they're watching. She assumes that Valkyrie let them in, though where _she_ is at the moment is a question she's definitely not up to asking.

"And?" Capable prompts to get more of the story, reaching out to pat the space next to her on the couch like she needs an invitation to use her own furniture.

Furiosa decides that she'd rather not cram in together with them at the moment, still a bit off-balance from earlier and loathe for more contact, but she smiles at her from where she's standing. "And... thank you," she says, more sincerely than the obligatory thanks she'd given out when they first handed her the appointment information.

It's definitely not something she expects to waste much time and money on, but although she's surprised to have found it something she didn't need to grit her teeth through and endure, she can see herself going back for another massage at some point. Maybe for her next birthday. Maybe, she allows herself to think as she reflects on the looseness in her neck and shoulders even now, on how careful Max was about doing only what she asked instead of pushing her boundaries, maybe even sooner than that.


End file.
